


All The Songs Make Sense

by Kerkerian_StopYulin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Love, M/M, Partnership, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1646315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerkerian_StopYulin/pseuds/Kerkerian_StopYulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you're in love, all the songs suddenly make sense. These are one-shots about John and Sherlock and how they realize that they're in love with each other (or related situations); some take place after the relationship has been established already. <br/>Most of them can stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Darn Brain-Messing Emotions

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
> 
> This is not an ongoing multi-chapter fic, rather variations of the same theme (which might greatly differ in length), namely how John and Sherlock realize they are in love with each other or respectively which trigger situations might occur. It's possible that there'll be spoilers for the series.  
> I've edited the original version, in case some of you are wondering, and am re-uploading it now.
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!

 

**Darn Brain-Messing Emotions**

 

 

 

It happens every time. The minute John Watson leaves 221B, Sherlock begins to miss him, even if he only nips out to get milk. Sometimes he already misses him before he´s gone, which is even worse, because one day John is bound to notice how Sherlock is staring at him longingly. The detective snorts at himself, but it undeniably is true: he longs for John.

He has no idea how it happened and frankly, is quite unnerved by the surge of emotions the doctor is stirring up in him, but he does not know how to turn it off either, and he doesn´t want to if he is honest with himself. He wants John. He pines for him, to be exact, and every bodily contact, however short or unintentional or both jolts through him like electricity. He wants John to put his arms around him, to _hold_ him for heaven´s sake, and he wants John to be the first thing he feels upon waking. He has never ever before had such cravings.

He is beginning to think that he´s losing his mind, and it´s getting worse; whenever he´s particularly agitated, he needs to have John near him, or at least something which smells of him. His scent is soothing, so logically Sherlock has borrowed one of John´s t-shirts, which is now hidden under a pillow in the detective´s bedroom. He is going to return it, of course, so no harm done. It is of great comfort to bury his face in it when he can´t sleep; if he can´t have the whole package, he can at least sample it, so to speak.

Sherlock loathes the turmoil which his emotions are putting him through, and he fears that he can´t concentrate enough. He does think rather a lot about John instead of entirely focusing on his respective cases, and he even has caught himself at allowing his mind to wander when John talks to him, for it is much more interesting to watch the other´s movements and expressions. Sherlock knows exactly how to read his flatmate´s body language, and he sometimes sees things he doesn´t like. Like the exhaustion after a particularly gruesome workday.

"Are you even listening to me?" John said, exasperated, the last time it happened.

Sherlock visibly started: "I´m sorry."

"Yes, you bloody well should be." John frowned at him.

Not good. Sherlock unexpectedly felt his stomach drop and would have liked to make it up to John, but didn´t know how.

"You´re tired," he therefore said, hoping it would suffice, "you´ve come back from a ten hour-shift at the surgery and are still trying to help me by going through the facts again with a fine-tooth-comb. I however didn´t listen to you, which is making you angry, and you´re considering of getting up and retiring to your room because I´m a rude, inconsiderate, selfish bastard."

John, despite his best efforts, couldn´t but smile: "Yes, my words exactly."

Sherlock had been tremendously relieved and from that point on did his best to not let himself go like that again. It´d been a lot easier when he didn´t have to care about the things he said and did. Except with Mummy, but that´s different.

* * *

So it is hard to keep to his good intentions at times, because John is so damn handsome and wonderful, and the world seems a better place when he smiles. Which _is_ rather distracting! Also, he´s got the most adorable little dimples, and Sherlock is furthermore certain he could lose himself in those eyes for hours. He sometimes imagines how it would be like if they slept in the same bed, snuggled up together. He would be able to feel John´s heartbeat, a thought that always makes his own heart rate increase considerably.

He already knows that John doesn´t snore, and he is quite sure he doesn´t either, but would it bother John if Sherlock´s breath smelled bad in the morning? Would it be possible to sneak out of bed, brush his teeth and sneak back in without waking John? Or should he keep a packet of mints on the nightstand?

And what if John wanted intercourse? What if it went really bad? Really, _really_ bad?

Frustratedly, Sherlock runs his hands through his hair; how do people do all that, finding a partner and then striking up a relationship without knowing all these variables? He doesn´t have the faintest idea.

John doesn´t seem intimidated by those questions at all. He keeps dating women, who however keep turning him down, much to Sherlock´s relief. It´s nearly unbearable seeing John leave, anticipating a pleasant evening in the company of a potential sexual partner and/or _soulmate_ , unsuspecting of Sherlock´s jealousy.

It doesn´t occur to the detective that the disappointing outcome might have anything to do with himself; no matter how romantic the restaurant is, there is only a limited amount of time a woman wants to spend listening to her date talking about his quirky- but-oh-so-great flatmate. It gets worse if the flatmate, upon meeting him, turns out to be lacking any social skills and utterly fails to prove his greatness.

The more difficult it becomes to hide his feelings, the more snappy and irritated Sherlock gets, especially with the rest of the world, meaning anyone else he has to share John with. And he certainly has no intention of making a good impression on the respective Sarahs, Janets or Marys.

* * *

John notices that Sherlock´s behaviour is odd, and much more so than usual. He can´t really fathom the reasons; at home, Sherlock seems reasonably relaxed, at least when they spend some quiet time together. Yet when they´re out, no matter whether it´s at a crime scene or in a supermarket, Sherlock seems to feel uncomfortable. He does his best to hide it behind a deliberate display of arrogance, but John knows him well enough to see through it. Something is bothering Sherlock, and whatever it is, he is sleeping and eating even less than usual. John worries, but knows better than to let it on.

Lestrade isn´t fooled either. "What´s up with him?" he asks in an undertone, nodding towards the detective who´s examining the latest victim´s fingers.

John shakes his head: "I don´t know. He won´t talk to me about certain matters."

Lestrade regards him silently for a moment: "Funny. I´d think he did, what with the way he´s been looking at you recently when you´re not paying attention to him."

John raises one eyebrow in question, at which the D.I. puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs: "Like you´re the only one whose opinion counts. Or... the only one who´s there."

Before John has found a reply to that, Lestrade walks away, all innocence. John murmurs: "Well, I _am_ the only one-" but then he stops. _Oh_.

Luckily, Sherlock is too occupied with the victim to register how John, after standing stunned for a moment, suddenly moves astonishingly quick to catch up with Lestrade: "Greg. Wait."

The D.I. turns to him, and John has a feeling that he is hiding a grin.

John pointedly ignores it: "What you just said- for how long do you think has it been going on, you think?" _And more importantly, who else has noticed?_ he wonders, but doesn´t ask.

* * *

John is unusually quiet during the following few days and seems to be avoiding Sherlock´s presence at times, or maybe he simply has got the evening shift for a change.

When he comes home after dark one day, he falls into his chair and sighs tiredly, but doesn´t speak. Sherlock´s been fiddling with his violin without actually playing it, and when he finally sits down opposite the doctor, he feels exhausted. He can sense that something is going on in John´s mind and has done so for a time, but he doesn´t dare ask.

What if John is considering moving out? He will eventually do so, a notion that makes Sherlock want to curl up in despair and simultaneously destroy all available breakables within his reach, but surely not yet? John will wait until he has met the right woman, being the sensible man that he is. The only other reason could be Sherlock´s antics, but as far as he recalls, he´s been good. He´s certainly done his best and even removed the bowl of earlobes from the fridge.

They sit in silence until Sherlock can´t bear it any longer and gets up; he still has work to do. It will at least take his mind off John. John who looks worried, who is paler than usual and who smells so good. If he is indeed going to move out, Sherlock is determined to keep at least one of his t-shirts.

* * *

Later that night, Sherlock sits at the kitchen counter and measures out liquids into different test tubes when John comes in.

He has been pondering Lestrade´s words for ages and still not got an inkling about what he should do. Maybe he should start by stopping to mull it over.

"Sherlock," he says, and to his astonishment, Sherlock goes perfectly still. He doesn´t exactly drop his pipette, but only barely manages to put it down, then he freezes. He doesn´t look at John, and his body suddenly is tense.

"What´s wrong?" John asks.

Sherlock needs a moment to gather himself before turning to face his friend: "Are you moving out?"

"What?" John looks so surprised that Sherlock makes a mental note: _completely misjudged situation, but at least proves that emotions are messing with brain_.

He is so relieved, however, that he starts to tremble. He quickly tries to hides his hands and unintentionally knocks an Erlenmeyer flask over with enough force to break it. He hisses as he feels the glass cutting into his skin.

Immediately, John is there, taking hold of his hand before Sherlock can pull it away and begins to examine the wound: "I´ll need to take the shards out-"

"It´s fine, John," Sherlock grounds out through the haze of pain and John´s scent and his own confusion and _John_. John who´s touching him, whose hands feel good even now, under these circumstances, and who Sherlock doesn´t want to lose.

John looks up at him: "What´s wrong, Sherlock?" he repeats, and his voice is so kind and warm and beautiful that Sherlock trembles even more, trembles with want and bereavement and love all at once: "N-nothing´s wrong," he manages to say.

It´s obvious that John doesn´t believe him.

"Liar," he breathes. He let´s go of the topic for the time being though, in order to care for Sherlock´s wound despite the detective´s protests.

Twenty minutes later, the wound is clean and bandaged, and John has poured Sherlock and himself a brandy. "For the pain," he says, and they clink glasses.

Sherlock doesn´t feel like drinking it and the pain is already receding, but he complies. Anything is better than talking; he feels cornered, which makes him uneasy, and he must be careful not to become snappy.

"You´re trembling," John observes."Need me to get you a red blanket?"

Sherlock huffs but can´t subdue a small smile. John´s humour. Another treat.

"Seriously, Sherlock." John looks at him with so much affection that Sherlock begins to feel funny.

"What is going on? Why did you think I´d want to move out?"

Sherlock´s brain is letting him down, however; darn emotions. Wordlessly, he holds out his glass; it can´t get worse anyway.

* * *

Only after the second refill, Sherlock finally begins to relax: "All these women," he says, "you keep dating all these women. I guess _their_ breath doesn´t smell bad in the morning."

John really doesn´t know how to answer that.

Sherlock however has only just started, and he hears himself, rather horrified, as all the pent-up emotions take over: "These women. Their breath probably smells liks _flowers_ when they wake up, even though that´s physically impossible. But what do I know, _I_ have never woken up with a woman, so it´s all guesswork. I can only _guess_ how it would be to wake up next to you. And let me tell you, I´m _done_ with that. Feelings only make one´s life a misery because frankly, it´s very hard to look on and then there´s pining and heartache and wondering what to do in case you´d want intercourse, but I guess none of _them_ even notices how really good you smell, and I just can´t do that anymore."

He stops, exhausted and a little horrified, and asks himself whether he has gone mad; if John really hasn´t considered moving out so far, he certainly is going to now. Oh god, how Sherlock is already missing him. With an appalled sigh, he lets his head drop into his uninjured hand, making another mental note: _brandy on an empty stomach equals truth serum_. _Not good when applied to self._

John is too busy trying to comprehend what he has just heard, and he is deliberately ignoring the word 'intercourse' for the time being. Sherlock has a crush on him, that much seems clear, and what he has just blurted out explains a lot. Explains everything, for that matter. John looks at the detective, who´s trembling again, sitting hunched over and hiding his eyes behind his fingers. Maybe it´s more than a crush.

Though John _has_ eaten something, he can also feel the effect of the brandy, if ever so slightly. He probably should go to bed and deal with this later, well-rested and rationally, but he can´t. He can´t leave Sherlock like this, not after what he just revealed.

And John doesn´t want to leave it at that, because his heart rate has actually increased considerably during the past half hour, starting when he found Sherlock in the kitchen, obviously distressed and looking so forlorn that John felt the need to hug him. Which he didn´t do, because he wasn´t certain how Sherlock would react. And then Sherlock said all those things, making John´s heart beat even faster.

When John remains silent but miraculously doesn´t leave the room, Sherlock almost timidly raises his head: "I´m. I´m sorry, John," he grounds out. "I- I..."

John shakes his head: "Don´t be."

Sherlock thinks he has misheard: "What?"

The doctor shrugs: "There really is only one way to find out."

"Find out what?"

"Oh, do keep up Sherlock." John smiles at Sherlock´s obvious confusion, cocking his head: "Will you go out with me?"

For a moment, Sherlock doesn´t seem to breathe.

"On a date?"

"Yes, on a date. It´s when two people go out and do something nice together, remember?."

"But we always-"

" _No_ , we don´t. Cases don´t count."

"Oh." Sherlock can´t quite believe that he´s not dreaming this.

But then John touches him, only ever so slightly but sending another electric jolt through Sherlock´s nerves, and there is his scent again, familiar and soothing. He is waiting for an answer. "So?"

Sherlock, for once happy not to think about the matter for too long, nods: "Yes... I´d like to go out with you."

He looks as though he doesn´t know what has struck him.

"Good. I know a nice little place." John smiles once more, illuminating the whole room or so it seems. "I´m going to bed now. Good night."

" _John_ -" Sherlock breathes, struggling for the right words. "How does one do it?"

John stops dead in his tracks:"Do what?"

"Well- you know... dating?"

The doctor stares at Sherlock for a moment, secretly relieved: "Relax. You´ll find out." He nods reassuringly: "You´ll like it."

 

Much later that night, lying widely awake on the sofa, Sherlock makes another mental note. _Correction: emotions do mess with brain but outcome might not be entirely undesirable_.

 

**Fin  
**

 

Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback. **  
**

I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.


	2. First Kiss (John's POV)

 

**First Kiss (John's POV)**

 

 

John hesitates for only the shortest of seconds; he knows that this will change everything that has been so far. Yet he can´t seem to stop himself, he wants this so much and it feels as though he has forever been wanting it.

With one long step he closes the distance between them and grabs hold of Sherlock´s coat, pulling him close until their bodies are touching.

John´s heart is racing, and for another second he is scared by what he´s just done, scared that it was the wrong thing to do and will send Sherlock running into the opposite direction, but the detective´s expression suddenly softens, and inexplicably, famously, John feels Sherlock´s arms around his back, his hands on his shoulders, tentative and gentle and a little restless. Yet there is nothing frantic about it all, and John suddenly feels calm; with a deep sigh, he turns his face further upwards until his skin meets Sherlock´s.

They simply, tenderly, nuzzle their faces together, inhaling the other´s scent. It feels like home, John thinks. It´s where he wants to be, close to Sherlock, having him safe and warm in his arms. He can´t bear the thought of anyone hurting him, or _touching_ him for that matter. He is overwhelmed by a sudden onslaught of jealousy and possessiveness that is new to him, but then, he has never _felt_ this way.

Pulling back a little, his eyes roam Sherlock´s face, taking in every detail and finding that he knows it already, that the landscape in front of him is as familiar as his own features. And he loves everything about it.

"May I kiss you," he says quietly, only partly making it sound like a question.

Sherlock´s eyes ( _I could drown in them_ , John thinks) widen a fraction before he breathes a reply: "You don´t have to ask."

Even though his deep voice is low, it seems to reverberate through John´s chest, redirecting his attention to his still erratically beating heart for a second. He briefly pauses, trembling; his hand finds Sherlock´s face, his fingers caressing the warm, pale skin ( _so soft_ ), and he can´t but marvel at the beauty of it all, of Sherlock ever so minutely shuddering at being touched like that, closing his eyes for the shortest of seconds- of this moment and their _togetherness_ , for goodness´ sake, before they kiss.

It´s tender and soft and amazingly, purely Sherlock, the way he feels and the way he tastes, and it´s really all John´s ever wanted.

Unhurriedly, they take their time, exploring, allowing themselves to be overwhelmed. They´re both new to this, after all.

 

**Fin  
**

Thanks for reading, please leave some feedback. **  
**


	3. Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

 

 

**Mirror, Mirror on the Wall**

 

 

Pacing back and forth in the living room, Sherlock caught his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece and paused in his motion. He had never given much thought to his looks, not as an adult anyway. He supposed he must have as a teenager, but apparently he had deleted any memories related to "coming-to-terms-with-your-adolescent-face".

He didn´t consider himself as handsome for he wasn´t exactly at ease with his features or the way his hair behaved as though it had a life of its own; he wasn´t vain enough to really care however, therefore he just stopped worrying about it at one point. One couldn´t choose the way one looked, after all.

Clothes, now that was a different matter. He made a point of dressing well; he had learned early on that looking impeccable opened many doors, and it was easier to deceive people, if necessary.

He liked how his tailor customarily presented him with a choice of fabrics every time Sherlock called round; selecting materials and colours, texture and cuts reminded him of composing a piece of music. At first there were merely ideas, bits and pieces waiting to be assembled, but in the end, it all fit together harmoniously.

But he was straying from the subject. He frowned at his mirror image, trying to recall where his initial train of thought had come from, because all this pondering was completely irrelevant, a waste of precious time. His gaze softened as he remembered: he had been thinking about John.

Sherlock had repeatedly caught himself wondering recently what John was thinking about his flatmate´s looks. He had been irritated by that, because it hardly mattered if John found Sherlock ... attractive, but every time he told himself that, his stomach fluttered and he felt funny. It was an unwelcome distraction at first, but one he couldn´t ignore because it occured at all possible times, usually taking Sherlock by surprise. He was seriously considering destroying every single mirror in the building because he constantly found himself staring into one, intent on solving the riddle, but that would have been too conspicuous.

On the previous night, John and Sherlock had been sitting in their respective armchairs watching the telly, and Sherlock, being in a good mood because of a freshly wrapped case, had been able not only to follow the movie, but had sort of enjoyed it. At one point, John had turned to look at him, smiling- and Sherlock, god forbid, had _blushed_.

He was still horrified by it. He didn´t blush, he never had and certainly wasn´t prepared to start doing it now. Yet he had, he had felt his face growing hot, and John´s expression had taken on a rather curious look- as though he had unexpectedly caught a glimpse of what lay behind the looking-glass. Sherlock rolled his eyes: there, his own brain was mocking him, thank you very much. He really didn´t need any of that nonsense, but now he couldn´t stop wondering just _what_ John saw when he looked at Sherlock.

He stepped closer to the mirror again, studying his face: his mouth was much too big, and his eyes were strangely slanted- he really didn´t have anything on John´s handsome features, on the contrary: in comparison to him Sherlock looked ridiculous. He sighed, abruptly turning away from the mirror. The doctor wasn´t one to judge a book by its cover anyway.

"I am going to stop reducing John to a superficial git," he said aloud, trying to distract himself.

"No, please- do go on, I´d like to hear the rest of it."

Sherlock jumped, spinning around: "John."

His flatmate stood in the door to the living room, eyebrows raised questioningly: "Why am I being reduced to a superficial git?"

Sherlock for once looked like a deer caught in the headlights, but he recovered astonishingly quick, putting his hands in his pockets: "I wasn´t talking about you."

"Oh, really? To me it did sound like it."

"Did it?"

"Yes, it did. The name´s a bit of a giveaway."

"Hm. I´ll leave you to your imagination then," Sherlock made a beeline for the door, albeit moving deliberately slow.

John of course wasn´t fooled by his friend and crossed his arms in front of his chest, intent on not letting him through: "Where are you going?"

"To the market, we need milk."

"You are going to buy groceries? Now?"

"Yes- is that so inconceivable?"

"You have no idea. Besides, you´re just trying to wiggle out of a conversation."

Sherlock feigned ignorance:"Which conversation, pray, do you mean?"

John, fully prepared to stare him down if necessary, stuck out his chin: "Sherlock- why don´t you just _tell_ me?"

Sherlock skilfully avoided his gaze by busying himself with his scarf: "Anything else, apart from the milk?"

"The truth."

"I don´t know what you mean." With that, Sherlock turned and went out through the kitchen door.

* * *

He wouldn´t talk when he returned to the flat twenty minutes later, but took up his violin and began to play- a consecutive string of melancholy pieces, one after the other.

John didn´t even try to speak with him again, for he knew it was pointless with Sherlock in a mood like that.

When John left the flat to meet Mike Stamford for a pint that evening, Sherlock didn´t even seem to notice. He had begun to compose and was entirely engrossed in his work.

 

Mike usually was good fun; it was nice to reminisce about the old days with him, and John was always interested to hear about the students Mike was teaching, though they didn´t only talk shop.

He found it hard to concentrate initially, for his thoughts were still revolving about this latest display of inexplicable Sherlockian behaviour; fortunately, Mike didn´t notice it, and after the second pint, John began to relax.

When he came home a few hours later, Sherlock was still awake. He had been lying on the sofa and fully intended to pretend to be sleeping; he listened as John stumbled up the stairs- too much to drink, obviously.

The doctor hesitated in the hallway, but instead of turning towards the bathroom or the second flight of stairs, he entered the living room: "Sherlock," he demanded, "I know you´re awake."

Sherlock opened one eye and peered up at him: "You´re drunk. Go to bed."

John shook his head: "No. I´m not too drunk to talk to you."

"Yes, you are. Better lie down."

"First, you're gonna listen to me."

"Oh god, must I?"

John ignored him: " _You_ , Sherlock Holmes, are no mystery to me. I mean, you _are_ a mystery to me, but that´s not the point. Or... maybe the other one isn´t."

Sherlock, seeing that John was being as stubborn as he was tipsy, sat up: "You´re not making any sense."

"Well that´s too bad, because to me, I do."

"So am I a mystery to you or not?"

John threw his hands in the air, nearly losing his balance: "You are. You absolutely _bloody_ are. And you know what? That´s only because usually, you are not. There. I said it made sense."

"No, it doesn´t."

John found that the floor was moving a little too much, so he sat down heavily next to his friend: "How long have we known each other now? No, shut up, that´s a rhetocarel- rhetorical question."

Sherlock held out his hands in a gesture of mock placation: " _Sorry_. Go on."

"And I think we do know each other quite well," John continued. "And then you go and pull a stunt like the one this afternoon."

"I didn´t _pull a stunt_ ," Sherlock said indignantly. "Where do you get these Americanisms from at all?"

Ignoring him again, John seemed to wait for an answer: "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well, what did you mean when you said you were going to stop reducing me to _a superficial git_?"

Sherlock sighed. They did indeed know each other well, therefore he could tell that John wouldn´t let go of the topic in the foreseeable future. On the contrary.

His own options were limited: he could keep denying it. He could move out. Or he could just tell John the truth. Which might result in unpleasantness, mildly put. If he didn´t tell John, he´d keep wondering and would eventually go mad, but at least John wouldn´t feel awkward. Well. Not like that, anyway.

Sod it. Going mad was still preferable to losing John, and he didn´t want to take _that_ risk. And he could still destroy those mirrors.

"Nothing. Just forget about it." He got to his feet: "Going to bed. Good night."

John stared after him: "Sherlock! The conversation is not over yet!"

The only answer he got was the sound of Sherlock´s closing bedroom door.

 

 

**Fin  
**

 

Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback!

 _AN_ : Just a quick note to emphasize that the author´s not sharing Sherlock´s opinion about his looks but thinks he´s rather delectable. ;D


	4. Heartbeat

This one has partially been rewritten entirely.

Enjoy!

 

 

**Heartbeat**

 

 

In this part, John and Sherlock are trapped in a small elevator due to a power blackout. We jump right into the situation...

 

 

When it was clear that there was no way out and they really were trapped in this _shoebox_ for as long as the blackout lasted, Sherlock suddenly tensed even more until he stood very still. John could sense it rather than see it in the dim light.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

"Don't speak. Mind Palace."

"Oh, Well, thank you for leaving me here on my own, then."

Sherlock huffed instead of a verbal answer, but it sounded different than usual, clipped, just like the few words he had said. Which told John that something was very wrong there. Sherlock was breathing rapidly now and still stood rigidly.

"Sherlock-"

"Damn it! I just can't get in!"

Yep. Definitely wrong.

Sherlock seemed to be reeling: "What do we do. What do we do. Roughly 3 feet 3 by 3 feet 11, how much oxygen for two people? How long? Breathe regularly, don't talk. _Can't_ stop talking as Mind Palace doesn't work. Need to think, think. Need to think about- _what_? Need to-"

"Stop!"

In the semi-darkness John had managed to catch Sherlock's hands in his own. Sherlock's were cold and clammy, evidence of his rising panic.

"Stop," John repeated a little more quiet. "You're talking yourself into a frenzy."

"I _am_ claustrophobic, John," Sherlock all but shouted, squirming. He did not try to free his hands, however; his fingers had indeed curled around John's. Cold sweat was beading on his brow.

"I can see that much," John replied calmly. "But if you freak out in here, I'll have to _knock_ you out, and believe me, you don't want that."

"I remember. You once showed me what you're capable of."

"That was only kindergarten," John said casually, noticing how Sherlock was beginning to tremble. "And besides, you started it. Okay... Let's sit down, okay?"

"Sit down, why?" Sherlock's voice was high-pitched.

"Trust me," John said, and Sherlock, who did trust him, complied, much to John´s surprise, really.

John settled against the wall: "Lean against me," he instructed in a tone that was a command rather than an invitation.

"Why?" Sherlock did not sound suspicious, but it was in his nature to inquire.

"Just do it." John was patient; he was used to dealing with scared people. Slowly, he managed to coax his friend down, never letting go of him. Sherlock tentatively shifted until he was as close to John as possible. The doctor cautiously put his arms around him and drew him even closer until Sherlock was leaning against his friend's chest, sitting between his legs. It would have been awkward had it not been an emergency.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, squirming a little again.

"Sit still and look," John said gently. "This way, my back and my arms are between you and the walls, and the ceiling is quite far above. There, where the bit of light comes through."

Sherlock stilled; in his panicked state, that made sense. John was keeping the closing-in at bay. With a shuddering breath, Sherlock leaned against his friend, body still tense. "We are going to suffocate," he stated. "This is strange."

"No talking, remember?" John said softly. "And no worrying. I've got you. No one's going to suffocate. Try to breathe more slowly, Sherlock. In, and out. In, and out..."

After a short while, Sherlock's breathing less resembled the laboured panting of someone who had just run a few miles. John's voice and his familiar scent were reassuring, but Sherlock was unable to relax enough to let go of control completely, and John still felt the tremor in the other's body. The detective was too agitated to think rationally, a rare situation. They were of course not going to suffocate, but there was no use trying to tell Sherlock that. With measured movements, the doctor fished his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat off Sherlock's forehead.

"Can you feel my heart?" John asked after a moment. He could certainly feel Sherlock's, beating wildly.

"Yes."

"Concentrate on it," John said, "you can count the beats."

Sherlock was going to protest, but then he listened to John's heart which he could feel through the fabrics of their clothes, and it was strangely fascinating, the notion that this small yet strong muscle was going to repeat the same function again and again and again, unfailingly so at that; and nearly against his will, Sherlock began counting. Eventually, the trembling subsided; approximately half an hour after the blackout had begun, Sherlock seemed entirely calm.

"Still at it?" John whispered.

"1.970," Sherlock replied in a tone that forbade any distraction.

John smiled, taking in the faint scent of shampoo which lingered in the soft, dark curls right in front of his nose; it did not feel bad at all, having Sherlock in his arms like this, even if the circumstances were a little peculiar and he was rather certain that the other would not allowed it if he had been himself. John was glad about Sherlock's temporarily reduced perceptiveness, however, since he very likely would have noticed by now that John's heart was in fact beating faster than usual. Sherlock's own heartbeat had slowed down to a normal pace in the meantime, which was good, of course, but John found himself wishing to continue this for a bit longer; there definitely were worse situations he could imagine being stuck in with Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

**Fin  
**

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